Chapter 27: Angels of the East District

“What are you here to buy? Oh… fresh rose petals?”
“I’d like some mint.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Chloe.”

The young ladies and ladies-in-waiting whispered among themselves, fanning gently, their brows occasionally furrowing or lifting in delicate smiles. Their fragrances masked the less pleasant herbal scent of the apothecary, and these rare visitors from the upper class of the East District attracted quite a few passersby to pause and stare.

Mrs. Cherry Chloe was dressed in an exquisitely tailored dress of red and yellow checkers, her slender waist cinched to a delicate grip. A misty little cloak draped over her puffed leg-of-mutton sleeves; her hair was piled high and tucked beneath a deep crimson brimless hat. Gems adorned her ears and chest, and soft-soled shoes covered her feet.

“You look truly exquisite today,” one lady remarked.

“This is just my walking dress,” Cherry Chloe replied with a light smile, “and I had my servants keep it simple—after all, I’m coming to the East District. But honestly, I couldn’t find anything more casual or affordable at home.”

She exchanged glances with the ladies around her, who lavishly complimented her until she squinted like a cat basking in warmth.

Undeniably, even without the finery, Mrs. Cherry Chloe deserved such praise. She was genuinely beautiful—fine brows and captivating eyes, her smile always revealing the allure of a mature woman; her swaying form, the ever-straight posture as she walked and spoke, slender arms moving gracefully without drawing undue attention.

Roland thought Rose could learn a thing or two from her.

“Your rose petals, madam.”

The fresh rose petals were wrapped carefully, tied with string, and handed to the maid.

“Oh…”

Cherry Chloe hid her face behind a folding fan, whispering to the other ladies, “Isn’t he utterly charming?”

The elegantly dressed women murmured softly in agreement.

The Angel of the East District.

This was the recent nickname for Mr. Roland Collins.

A name of weight and renown.

No one knew which foul-minded soul had spread it.

Since that day, the number of ladies and misses visiting the apothecary had surged.

Unlike the locals, these ladies usually traveled by carriage all the way from the West District to this crooked little alley in the East. They arrived with parasols and delicate satin fans, supported and attended by servants, browsing the shelves and selecting herbs… spending half the morning simply to admire a certain someone.

The shoemaker sometimes joked with Roland, saying he never expected this street to have traffic jams.

“He truly looks like an angel.”

“Those eyes… so pitiful. A hollow sadness that tugs at your heart, yet sparkling like precious gems…”

“Have you… prepared it yet?”

“I brought holy water from the church. Before you leave, I’ll sprinkle some on you. He’s so handsome, surely he won’t carry any nasty diseases… but Cherry, be careful. You shouldn’t get too close.”

As if afraid Roland wouldn’t hear, the ladies glanced his way while speaking—like spectators admiring some exotic creature.

Roland stood behind the counter and bowed slightly to the woman before him. “Mrs. Chloe.”

“He remembers my name! Look, he actually remembers!”

Hearts pounded wildly.

Roland’s charming smile caused this group of overly eager admirers to gasp softly.

Many servants quickly produced “lady revivers”—small bottles of smelling salts pressed beneath their noses.

There was no gentleman here to steady them.

Cherry Chloe covered her mouth, her sky-blue eyes reflecting a face rarely seen in this world.

Tilting his head, Roland pointed to his ear and said in a soft tone that stood out amid the murmurs and gasps, “I can’t see, so I have to rely on my ears more.”

Thus, their admiration deepened with a layer of pity.

“Why must Roland Collins go to the theater?”

“He can make money with his looks right here in the apothecary.”

Roland lightly clenched the counter and took a deep breath.

In any case, the total sales these days weren’t much, but they were simple—how much could rose petals and mint leaves be worth, and how much effort could they require?

“If you ask me, forget being an executor. Just stay here and be my shop assistant.”

Once the ladies had left, old Collins emerged from the back room, carrying half a bottle of liquor.

He had calculated that if this continued for a month, the shop would earn nearly half a year’s usual income: the boy was a natural at making money. If he stayed for a few years, the two of them might finally afford a proper house on a good street.

As for why Roland hadn’t come home all night recently…

He didn’t bother mentioning it.

Wasn’t it obvious?

“I warned you not to get involved with those Black Crows.” He slumped into a chair, not even looking at Roland as the boy diligently ground herbs. “They walk on the edge of a knife. You think one night…”

He sneaked a glance at Roland.

“…or a few nights will make you win her over? Kid, I’ve seen it—they have no feelings! They’re cold-blooded monsters…” The old man’s gaze flickered toward the door and window, his voice dropping lower. “…I heard they even use magic, with frog legs and toad skins…”

His eyes sparkled at the mention.

“Have you seen her cast magic?”

That was the real question he wanted to ask.

Roland kept his lips sealed and shook his head. “No, uncle. The lady only said I have to pass an exam in two weeks before I can register…”

Not getting the answer he wanted, Percival Collins visibly deflated.

He grabbed the bottle, took several gulps, wiped his mouth, and slammed the glass down on the table.

“Anyway, you can’t work without pay.”

Roland replied, “You don’t have to worry. The lady is kind.”

“You worry about me?” Old Collins gaped, disbelief etched on his face. “Me? Worry about you? Open your eyes, you blind boy, I worry about—”

Roland hummed, signaling he was listening. “Yeah, what do you worry about?”

“I worry—”

“You worry…”

His mouth twisted, stuck for a moment, then he shouted angrily, “Why don’t you grind your herbs properly?! I don’t think you’ll last long working here!”

“Ha!”

Roland lowered his head, shoulders trembling as he pushed the mortar inch by inch.

“…If you see any magic, come back and teach me.”

He muttered for a while, then switched topics. “Also, about that thing you wanted me to prepare—I’ve told William. When you go, bring a bottle of wine for my little princess…”

“Uncle, Alice is only ten.”

“I never said the wine was for her.” Old Collins retorted, “He should know what it’s like to live in a drunken stupor. No business, pretending to be busy every day—I think knocking on windows is better than fiddling with that iron and leather all day.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your message.” Roland set down the mortar and wiped his hands. “But you’ll have to buy me the wine.”

“What?! I feed you, clothe you, and now I have to—”

“Yes, and cover my living expenses too.”

Roland looked up with innocent eyes. “Uncle, you’re so good to me.”

The old drunkard, who had been tipsy since noon, blushed beneath his wrinkled face, either from coaxing or the alcohol.

He turned away, mumbling, “It’s only because you’re a Collins…”